


Two Ragged Soldiers

by DoctorSyntax



Category: Castle
Genre: Coda, Episode: s04e23 Always, Fix-It, Hate Sex, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:30:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorSyntax/pseuds/DoctorSyntax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-'Always' fix-it hatesex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Ragged Soldiers

Javier's halfway through a bottle of tequila when he hears the familiar noise of a key scraping in a lock—the front door lock, to be precise—and his stomach bottoms out. He wouldn't be surprised if his next swallow of tequila burns right down his throat, through a hole in his stomach and pools around his feet.

Kevin. 

He should never have given his partner a fucking key, but it had made sense at the time—he hadn't had anyone else to hold it for him, family too far away and friends even further. A while back he'd thought about giving to Lanie, but when all was said and done it's a good thing he never got around to it. Briefly he wonders who'll keep his spare key for him now that he's about to take it away from Kevin. Beckett, maybe, if she'll even speak to him—he hasn't tried yet, doesn't know if she's angry with him at all. Castle probably would, but does he really want Castle to have his spare?

But there are more important things to be worrying about, like how Judas himself is walking through Javier's front door like he has every right to. "Get out," he orders before Kevin can even get both feet over the threshold. Boredom he doesn't feel slides through his words, and he doesn't bother to get off the couch. Maybe if he ignores Kevin hard enough, he'll go away.

Kevin slams the door shut; Javier can hear it latch, and then Kevin reaches behind him to twist the deadbolt. "No." There's a dangerous undercurrent to his voice, something demanding and dark. Like he's decided they need to _talk_ and steeled all his nerves, but he's blustering. Javier knows his partner—his ex-partner—better than anyone. It's a front, and it's not a very good one.

He barely spares Kevin a glance as he hauls himself up off the couch and over to the end table with the landline. Doesn't say _I'm not playing, bro_ but the implication is there loud and clear. "Give me your key back and then get the fuck out of my apartment."

"Make me."

Suddenly Kevin's right there and if Javier is surprised by Kevin's resolve, he refuses to let it show on his face. Can't give an inch because he knows Kevin will see right through him and press any advantage—Javier's spent enough time in interrogation rooms with the man to know he'll play any weakness Javier makes vulnerable. So he just picks up the phone, starts dialing a number he knows better than his own. "I'm calling the police."

Kevin pulls aside his suit jacket just enough to flash his badge. "I _am_ the police, which is more than you can say at the moment." It's a cheap blow, engineered to make him angry, and Javier falls into the trap without reservation, too ready to be pissed off to care that he's being manipulated.

"Yeah, and whose fault is that, asshole?" Javier asks, spinning around and slamming the phone down on the table, just before he steps right into Kevin's personal space. Oh, he has been _itching_ for this, ready since the minute he tossed his badge on Gates's desk to rip someone's throat out for glancing at him sideways. 

Kevin, to his credit, doesn't back away from Javier, or down from the issued challenge. He raises his chin defiantly, and maybe his voice wavers a little bit, but he still answers. "Mine." 

He'd been expecting… hell, he didn't know. Denial, justification, maybe even a plea for forgiveness but never this. Just a simple statement of facts, no note of guilt or apology in his admission, it's all wrong. Hollow enough to deny Javier the vindication he'd wanted, but then again maybe he'll get it yet, because Kevin's still talking.

"Mine. Yours. Beckett's. Gates's. We can play the blame game _all_ night, Javier, but the truth of it is, it's not just one person's fault. And yeah, for what it's worth, I wish it had ended differently for you but I... I'm _not_ sorry," he maintains, mouth pressing in a resolute line that's mirrored in his jaw, the defiant flash of his eyes. "I can't be sorry for making a decision that saved Beckett's life, no matter how much it sucked."

The bitch of it is, Javier understands that. If he were in the right frame of mind he could even accept it as the apology it clearly is, but he's not; splitting headache, just a little too far gone past tipsy and flushed hot with indignation. Worked up to the point where he's enjoying the anger, the way it simmers low in his blood like a drug. He's been suspended from the force; his entire life, his career, everything he's worked for... it's gone. Somebody needs to take the blame. The words slip out before he has a chance to think about it, but he doesn't regret them: "Then I'm not sorry for hating you. This conversation is over, now get out."

But Kevin has never known how to take no for an answer, especially not when it comes to Javier, and he stands his ground. Grabs Javier's arm to keep him from walking away. "What, and I don't have the right to be mad at you too? For backing _her_ up instead of me, for forcing me to make this fucking decision in the first place?"

Kevin's voice is slowly but steadily rising; give him five minutes and he'll be shouting loud enough for the neighbors to hear, but Javier doesn't care. Actually kind of thrills to hear it, because it proves that Kevin's upset about this, as he should be. Not just upset because his partners aren't speaking to him, which is a coward's reason to be angry, but upset because he had a stake in this. At least it proves he felt a little torn up about his decision, but not so torn up that Javier needs to forgive him. (Because if he really had been that conflicted, he wouldn't have gone to Gates. Would've called Castle or something. Gates is a good captain, but she's not family, not yet. Kevin knows that.)

When it becomes apparent that Javier's only response is going to be a smirk and one raised eyebrow, Kevin takes a breath and continues, voice growing ever-louder. Like he's trying to finish a speech that he's slowly forgetting the words to and the only logical response to that is _get angry_. "I don't care if you and Beckett never forgive me. I don't. I can't live with either of you dead and maybe that's selfish, but guess what—" his laugh sounds broken as he wipes it away with the back of his fist, and his eyes are a kind of wild lost Javier's never seen in him before. "I don't give a damn."

Javier doesn't know who he's trying to convince more. "What are you trying to prove, Ryan?" He muscles in a little closer, jostling but not shoving, and that turns out to be a serious lapse in judgment because all he wants to do now is _push_ , just push and push until Kevin snaps and gives him an excuse to lash out. He wants it so badly it's almost tangible.

"Nothing!" That one the neighbors probably heard.

"No, see, I know you have a point or you wouldn't have broken into my apartment—you're just not making it."

"My point is you were unconscious in a hotel room and she was hanging from a fucking rooftop screaming for someone who wasn't there! If we hadn't shown up when we did, she could be dead right now, and that? That's on _you_ , Javier. That's my point."

He doesn't say anything. Kevin's right. Kevin's right, and that makes him furious. Three feet behind Kevin is the living room wall and almost before either of them know what's happening Kevin's back whumps against the plaster, Javier crowding up against him before he can recover, pressing a thigh between Kevin's legs and a forearm to his throat.

"Don't say that," Javier says, and his voice comes out a rough growl. God, every part of him is aching and none of the hurt is physical.

"That's what I'm trying to make you understand, Javi! Fuck. You honestly gonna stand there and tell me you'd've _ever_ forgiven yourself if she died when you were supposed to have her back? Because I know you—you think I don't know you would've carried that ‘til the day you died? Just let it eat away at you ‘til there was nothing else left?"

"Shut up!" He leans a little bit harder against Kevin's neck, free hand curling into a fist. Kevin doesn't seem even the least bit fazed and Javier realizes it's because they've been here before, and not that long ago. He freezes. 

Kevin, apparently, takes this as an invitation to keep talking. "I've watched Beckett's mom's case destroy her, just kill her a little bit more every day, and there's no fucking way I was going to let the same thing happen to you. You need to hit me, you go ahead and hit me," he continues, voice low. "But don't you dare try to tell me you'd have preferred the alternative."

Javier flashes right back to another year, another argument that had Kevin pinned against a wall— _go ahead, go ahead_ —but instead of the fight leaving his body it surges through his veins until his vision is a red-haze tunnel, until the dull thud of his knuckles connecting with Kevin's jaw snaps him back to reality.

For a second he feels very, very sober.

Kevin's fist slams into his solar plexus with all the grace of a Mack truck and knocks the wind right from his body. He's reeling as much from the punch as from the shock of Kevin getting the drop on him, which has never happened, not once, in all the years they've known each other; pure instinct takes over.

Buried deep, tamped down beneath years of military and police training, lurks something dark that Javier long ago learned to use to his advantage. A hardness to get him through a day of pointless fighting, an ugly edge to intimidate suspects. Show it just enough to get his way, but never let it free. Never give into it, because god knows he can't control it.

As he tackles Kevin to the floor, feels the thud of collision between two solid bodies and a secondary, reverberating, thump when they hit the floor, part of him he recognizes that there's no going back from this. Kevin fights back almost without delay, winded but scrappy to the end, and maybe it would have been enough to duke it out with fists—maybe—but somewhere in the scramble for the upper hand, amongst their clumsy grappling without any regard for form or finesse, their hips collide. In a moment that began as nothing more than the overwhelming desire to cause each other pain, it is suddenly, almost excruciatingly, apparent that they're both halfway or more hard.

Javier pulls back in surprise just in time to see Kevin's eyes flutter shut and then open again, suddenly blown wide with lust, pupils swallowing iris under half-lids. He blinks again, and Javier can't tell if his heart rate is racing or slowing down through an immobile moment of hazy-slow time skip.

Four, three, two, one.

Like a prisoner snapping the chain of his handcuffs, every reason why this is a bad idea gets shoved aside in favor of _reacting_ , and he's not the only one. They come together at the same moment, with the same idea, a blur of biting, grappling, kissing everywhere but the lips—Javier knows better than that. Kevin whines and squirms beneath him, mouth blindly seeking Javier's as he appears not to have gotten the memo, and it's so tempting to give in. Kevin's the picture of pure debauchery in motion, a mess of flexing muscles and pliant indulgence in the moment; a higher proof by far than the tequila running through Javier's veins.

And he hasn't forgotten that Kevin's married, but he wonders if maybe Kevin has. If he would even care if he did, or if they're both too far gone at this point. Javier's all out of damns to give, but Kevin… Kevin's probably going to regret this. Javier's not ashamed to admit that it only spurs him on more. Kevin destroyed his life and he gets to keep his job, go home to his pretty, perfect wife, get a new partner and carry on like nothing's changed. He wants to hurt Kevin, tear his life apart piece by piece and leave him broken as so much shattered glass, see how he likes it.

If the only way he can do that is let himself take what he's been dying to for the past year, so much the better. He realized a long time ago (after Jenny but before Lanie) that Kevin will never be his, not the way he wants, and the Tantalus ache of having him once and never again suits Javier's self-loathing raincloud mood to a _t_.

For no-one will ever torture us as thoroughly as we do ourselves.

Javier ducks his head down, kiss-bites a mark at the base of Kevin's neck, low enough to hide with a collared shirt but unmistakable if seen. He knows Jenny will see it eventually. He doesn't care. God help him, he doesn't care. It's not the way his momma raised him— _you don't never mess around with married folks_ —and before today he never would have allowed himself this. But this is after, and maybe he won't be proud of himself in the morning, but they're already too far in; stopping now would be next to meaningless. He can't concentrate against the sense of Kevin around him; a near-soundless gasp of _fuck_ might issue from his lips but he doesn't pay it any heed, lets it get lost among bitten-off moans and labored breaths.

On the one side, the hard line of Kevin's dick slides up against Javier's own, hot and heavy; on the other, the blunt edge of his badge digs into Javier's hip, bump and contour imprinting itself against his body with every grind of their hips together. It's maddening in more ways than one. But he isn't going to rip Kevin's badge off his hip and toss it to the other side of the room because that would be melodramatic, no matter how satisfying it would probably also be. Instead he settles for yanking down Kevin's zipper with more force than strictly necessary and manhandling his blood-hot dick out from beneath the ridiculous white cotton briefs he's wearing. (Of _course_ Kevin is a briefs guy.) Kevin is warm and firm inside his grip and he's distracted enough that he hardly notices Kevin undoing his jeans and shoving them down around his thighs.

"God," Kevin chokes in surprise, "she wasn't kidding," and it seems bizarre that _this_ is how Kevin would chose to break the near military-imposed silence of the apartment. For a second he wonders who was telling Kevin assumed lies about the contents of his jeans until he remembers an offhand comment Beckett made a couple years ago about going commando.

And, oh, he can't resist, leans in close. "Want to guess how she knew?" he taunts. Brushes his mouth over the shell of Kevin's ear and gets a groan in reward.

"Fuck, _no_ ," is Kevin's answer, grabbing Javier around the waist and pulling him closer, until there's not a molecule of space between their bodies, until their dicks line up. Cants his hips upward like he's going to be the one to take control and set the pace, and it's up to Javier to show him exactly how fucking wrong he is. Clearly the easiest way to do that is thread his fingers in Kevin's short hair and yank it back, take advantage of Kevin's surprise to grind down at a slightly different angle.

Fingernails catch in the skin of his back and then slide blunt lines of pain across his skin. Kevin uses the surprise to roll them over; their progress is somewhat halted by Javier's shoulders slamming into the coffee table leg, expelling all the breath from his body in a rush that feels really, really fucking good all things considered—even as the impact reverberates throughout his nervous system, up to his already-throbbing head and down straight to his dick. He knows it's the adrenaline and that his shoulders will hurt like a bitch, probably even bruise, in the morning, but once again—he can worry about the morning in the morning. Because right now all he wants to do is put a hand on Kevin's shoulder and slam it into the ground, pin his body back down. It's the matter of seconds to make it happen, from conception to execution, and _fuck_ is it ever satisfying. 

The fight hasn't left either of them, not yet, but it's not long ‘til they reach some kind of truce, when it's too good to focus on the hate, and they fall into a back-and-forth rhythm so easy it's like (almost) everything else in their partnership, and what was it that Kevin had said? _With you 'til the wheels fall off_ , and fuck, that's just—that's not fair, because he was and he wasn't; betrayed them and saved them all at the same time and it hurts like molten lead pooled low in his belly. Nerves frazzled, fried extra-crispy with ragged desperation that only mounts the angrier he gets. The sensations mix but don't dissolve into one, two distinct feelings at war inside of him, but still he doesn't know if it's the edge of the precipice or blind rage that makes his vision blur around the edges ‘til all he can concentrate on is Ryan, Kevin, the way his teeth have sunk deep into his lower lip, head thrown back, moving beneath Javier like he's slowly coming undone.

Orgasm blindsides him, the second time in ten minutes he's let Kevin catch him with his guard down and it really doesn't bode well that he—that anyone—can get under Javier's skin like that. No wonder that guy got the drop on him. Gonna have to go in a little early tomorrow, get in a little bit of work on the bags, maybe ask Demming for a sparring match—

Nope. Can't do that. How quickly we forget. (And forgive?)

The thought has him rolling _away_ , onto his back, and Kevin half-turns, blindly seeking body heat, doesn't even realize how angry Javier is. Probably isn't even in a state where he can, judging by the way his eyes are still half-shut and he's pawing ineffectually at Javier's shirt. Some kind of instinct has Javier reaching out toward him, grips him just this side of too-tight, judging by the small gasp of surprise, and good. Javier's smile is all grim satisfaction, the loose exhaustion of afterglow not quite enough to mitigate his aggression. _Good_. It's Kevin's turn to hurt a little, he thinks, jacking him off with a too-dry hand and rough swipes of a callused thumb. He twists his wrist hard and Kevin comes with a muffled groan, bucking his hips up against Javier's side and making an unbelievable mess of their clothes before flopping backward with a content sigh.

Both stay flat on their backs for a second. As an afterthought Javier tucks himself in and Kevin follows suit, zipping but not buttoning his suit pants. He's still in the clothes he wore to work this morning and Javier wonders if that means something, if Kevin didn't go home afterward but just wandered around the city until he finally worked up the nerve to break into Javier's apartment and pick a fight.

They're both breathing hard, so when Kevin speaks it doesn't exactly break a silence but it spooks Javier all the same. "I thought you were dead. When I saw you face-down, not moving, I thought they'd killed you." Kevin's always worn his heart on his sleeve but the raw pain Javier can hear in his voice is intense, even for him. It's too close to an admission Javier doesn't think he can hear right now; skirts the edge of something fragile and life-altering all at once. 

He remembers very clearly what losing Ike felt like, and if that had damn near killed him, he has no doubt Kevin wouldn't have made it through the loss of both his partners; maybe he wouldn't have died but his life would have ended just the same. In the face of that, he can see how Kevin would have preferred betraying them and living with their rage than keeping quiet and living without it. 

It isn't forgiveness, not by a long shot, but it's a start.

"Yeah, well," he breezes, wiping his come-sticky hand on the rug (he'll clean it later). Rubs it back and forth a couple of times, ‘til he's sure he can say the rest without choking around the words. "Takes more than a dirtbag with a gun to get rid of me."

"Just—stop it. I hate worrying about you." He's annoyed but says it like it's obvious, and Javier swallows around a lump in his throat and doesn't know how to answer. Kevin doesn't seem to notice, busy testing the flexibility of his face with a series of expressions that ends with a grimace. He touches the pad of his thumb to his chin, pulls it away like he's expecting to see blood. "I think you fractured my jaw, asshole."

Gone is the plaintive, half-scolding _don't say that_ tone from Kevin's voice, replaced by the easy camaraderie they've always shared. Like nothing out of the ordinary just happened. 

And this? This, Javier can deal with. It's the deeper things he can't (won't) scratch at right now. "You probably broke your delicate little hand trying to punch me, too," he points out, rolling to his feet. "Come on, Glassjaw, I'll take you to the hospital."

On reflex he offers Kevin his hand, then snatches it away the second he realizes. Kevin grabs the back of a chair, hoisting himself up with a theatrical groan, and doesn't comment.

It's a start, he tells himself again. And for now, it is enough.


End file.
